Ink and Honor
by Shade's Ninde
Summary: A collection of Kaldur-centric oneshots written for Kaldur Week. Day Six: "Seeking." (Kaldur, post-"Summit.")
1. Credit

I don't own Young Justice. Prompts for Kaldur Week on tumblr came from honortasticheroes.

* * *

**CREDIT**

* * *

Debriefing lasts longer than Artemis would have expected. Usually when Kaldur comes back from these routine assignments, he's back in his chambers within half an hour to check that everything has gone smoothly on her end, to see that she and her cover remain safe, as he's always strangely anxious to see her after his missions. Her best guess why is that as the one with a year's more experience down here, he feels responsible for taking the lead in their ruse, and so he constantly worries about her when they have to be apart, which is often. It would be sweet if it weren't so necessary.

This time, it's more than an hour before she hears the tell-tale beep of the electronic lock and the door slides aside to reveal him standing there in the corridor. She almost swears, then remembers she needs to play it cooler than that, and simply stands up.

He's a mess – bruises purple his face and arms, and there are a series of what look like puncture wounds in his left shoulder, singed around the edges. One grey eye is nearly swollen shut.

"What the hell happened?" she asks as she rounds his desk, instinctively touching the charm at her neck to be sure she's still in disguise.

"One of my men tripped an alarm," Kaldur replies as he steps inside, his voice betraying none of the pain he must be in. "The raid was unsuccessful."

"Sit down," Artemis instructs. She's already moving to the cabinet where he keeps his medical supplies. "Why weren't you wearing your armor?"

Kaldur obeys, taking a seat on the edge of his bed.

"It was necessary for the mission that I approach as a civilian to make the initial entrance," he says. "Disguised, of course, but the armor would have drawn too much attention. Did your meeting with the Shadows go as planned?"

"It was fine," says Artemis, taking a seat beside him and handing him an ice compress for his eye. "I have an assignment next week, busting Black Spider out of lockup. Shouldn't be too hard. But forget about my end. How did your dad react to yours?"

"Black Spider," Kaldur muses, ignoring her question. He flinches slightly as her fingers, smeared with disinfectant, touch the rim of what she now guesses must be laser wounds. Typical Atlantean military technology – he was fighting his own. "After all your work to put him there."

"I know, it's a little ironic," Artemis concedes, continuing her ministrations; she pushes the strap of his uniform aside for better access and he responds by simply reaching up and taking his shirt off, revealing yet more bruising across his chest and abdomen. Given the amount of force it takes to bruise Atlantean skin, Artemis can only imagine what kind of hits those must have been. Biting her lip, she rises and goes to get another ice pack. "But your dad, Kaldur. You were in the command room for ages. Is everything okay?"

"He is displeased," says Kaldur, sounding as though he is choosing his words carefully. "But he has given me a chance to redeem myself. We are retrying the mission with a fresh crew. I depart in an hour."

"An hour?" Artemis repeats incredulously, stopping in her tracks. "That's ridiculous. You haven't slept in two days – no, don't argue with me, your bed was untouched this morning and the last – and you just got beaten half to hell because one of your stupid goons messed up your orders, that's not – "

" – they are not goons," Kaldur interrupts quietly. "They are men. Misguided men, but men all the same. And a leader must take responsibility for all his team does. Good, and bad."

"When's the last time you ate?" Artemis demands.

"That is none of your concern."

"Like hell it is, Kaldur," Artemis frowns, sitting beside him again to resume tending to the laser shots in his shoulder. "You can't keep doing this. Borrowing from the future to pay for the present. It's all going to catch up with you."

"My father expects discipline. Disappointing him jeopardizes the entirety of our mission."

"This isn't discipline," she objects. "This is suicide."

"No," he says. "It is sacrifice."

She shakes her head in frustration.

"That's a meaningless distinction."

"One has purpose. The other does not. I hardly find that meaningless."

"Kaldur," says Artemis, her brow creasing as she unwraps a fresh roll of bandaging and begins to wind it up his arm, just above the elbow. "You don't have to do this. I'm sure – "

" – there are two ways to prove myself to my father," says Kaldur, cutting her off once again. "To give my life, or to take others'. Which would you have me choose?"

She falls silent, his point weighing heavily on her as she reaches across him to secure the bandaging. This close, it is easy to read the traitorous signs of his exhausted body – the fresh wounds, those still healing, the scars of the ones that never will. There is a slump to his broad shoulders that was never there three years ago, even on the Team's most trying days. There is a vacancy in his eyes that chills her every time she glimpses it.

He's already half gone. And if things continue like this…

He rises as she finishes wrapping his shoulder, straightening his stance and closing his eyes for a moment, then he crosses to the door, pausing with his hand on the switch. She knows he is giving her a last chance to say something before he opens it and their secrecy is lost.

"I must brief my new crew on the mission," he says, as though prompting her. "Do you require anything of me?"

"Just…think of what's waiting for us after," she says, voice imploring. "Save something for that. For when we're done with this and we can go back to the people we're fighting for, to the way things were before all this."

He turns away from her, but not so quickly that she misses the icy, bitter smile that flashes across his face.

"It is a good thought," he says, then opens the door.

Long after he's gone, she can't help wondering if he actually finished that sentence.


	2. Tiresome

**TIRESOME**

* * *

Kaldur has made his home on the surface world for about three months when his flat gets its first visitor.

The circumstances are not ideal. He and Speedy have only seen each other out of uniform on about six occasions, and he's not entirely sure what to think about the fact that the other sidekick (_partner, _Kaldur mentally corrects) drunk-dialed his hitherto unused cell phone to arrange this drop-in. How Harper even got his number, Kaldur isn't sure, but between determining that the strange beeping sound was in fact his own ringtone and attempting to decipher the archer's slurred speech, he forgot to ask.

The short of it is that surface-dwellers apparently aren't supposed to imbibe until a certain age, and Speedy is decidedly _not _that age, and if he goes home to his mentor right now he'll be in a considerable amount of trouble – "deep shit," in his own words. Since Kaldur is the only other sidekick he knows who doesn't live with anyone who'd be likely to rat him out, he's decided now is the perfect opportunity for them to spend some quality time together.

(Or at least, this is the impression Kaldur gets from the phone call. His English is coming along, but in this case his unfamiliarity with curses has proven inconvenient.)

"Nice…table," Speedy says as he kicks off his shoes in the entryway, clearly focusing on the first item he can see in the apartment. He smells faintly of rum. "Been meaning to ask, by th'way, why're you…y'know, alone?"

Kaldur blinks. He understood the words, but not the meaning.

"I am sorry," he says, shutting the door. "I…do not follow."

"This place," says the archer, gesturing ungracefully at the flat. "You're like what? Fi'teen?"

"Yes," says Kaldur. He almost mentions that his birthday was last week, but that feels childish, so he doesn't.

"Yeah so how th'fuck d'you live alone?" asks Speedy, walking in to plop down on the couch uninvited. He sprawls out, effectively commandeering the space.

"Make yourself at home," Kaldur murmurs. On a very silly level he is proud to have remembered the expression, but that too seems juvenile so he keeps it to himself. He crosses the room to take a seat on the floor opposite the other. "As to your question, I am nearly a legal adult in Atlantis, and my king deemed me sufficiently independent to live without a chaperone, thus it was merely a matter of convincing the landlady that I am of age. She believes I am nineteen."

"Too many syllables."

"My apologies," says Kaldur, suddenly very self-conscious.

Speedy shifts on the couch, let his head loll back against the cushions as he eyes Kaldur. It's difficult to tell if his staring is a result of his inebriation or if this kind of boldness is second nature to him, or maybe (Kaldur reminds himself) this is a surface dweller thing. Atlanteans generally don't sustain eye contact with anyone but lovers, families and close friends, but things could be different here. He tries not to let it make him uncomfortable.

"So what're you about?" the archer asks after a moment.

"Pardon me?"

"What're you about?" Harper repeats. "Like…what d'you do when you're not doin' the hero thing? School? Work? Babes?"

"I am not very good with children."

Speedy's laughter cuts him off and Kaldur feels his face grow hot, knowing he has made some kind of mistake. Before he can ask, the other sidekick waves him off.

"Never change, Aqualad," he tells him, grinning.

"We are off duty," says Kaldur. "You could call me Kaldur'ahm. If you wished."

"Yeah I can't pronounce that," says Speedy, making a face.

"Kaldur, then," says Kaldur.

"A'ight Kaldur," the archer yawns. "I can be Roy I guess."

Kaldur nods awkwardly. He remembers Speedy's secret identity from the first time they were introduced, but he supposes the other boy knows a lot of people, so he doesn't blame him for not remembering his too. Apparently his name is difficult to pronounce, anyway, which would probably also make it hard to recall.

"S'seriously though, Kaldur," says Roy, lurching a little more upright on the couch and putting his feet up on the coffee table, at which the Atlantean does not cringe. Really. "What do y'even do besides follow Aquaman around? S'gotta be something."

"Well," says Kaldur, glancing around his apartment as if searching for the answer. "I…do not attend school on the surface, and my work with my king requires too much of my time to allow for regular employment, but in the time I do have to myself I…ah. I train. I study. Occasionally I indulge in leisure reading, fiction, mostly."

"Jesus Christ," Roy mutters.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," the other boy says, shaking his head. "Jus'…that sounds…uh…fuck it, I'm drunk n' honest, that sounds really boring."

"How so?" asks Kaldur, shifting on the floor to get more comfortable. He doesn't consider his life boring, though he finds Roy's presence strangely welcome, drunk and forward and blunt as the archer is. Perhaps his solitude _has _grown tiresome.

"Look, I'ono how things roll in Atlantis," says Roy. "But up here, _reading _doesn't qualify as like…fun. You gotta like…get out. Do stuff. With people, y'know? Y'can't just sit in here all by y'self reading or training or _studying, _f'fuck's sake. Tha's just sad."

Unsure if he should take offense at that or not, Kaldur wraps his arms around his knees and simply shrugs. He considers telling Roy that he doesn't really have friends up here yet, that he's been so busy acclimating to the new life and the new language he's had no time to go out and meet people, or that even if he did, he has difficulty with first impressions. But somehow he has a feeling that wouldn't help with the "sad" part.

"Well, I am here now, with you," he points out after a moment.

Roy rolls his eyes.

"Doesn't count," he says. "M'drunk. An' you're on th'floor. Shit."

As if suddenly realizing his rudeness, Roy scoots over, slaps his hand down on the couch next to him.

Kaldur holds up his hands.

"It is fine, I – "

" – no, man, c'mere," Roy insists, jerking his head towards the open spot on the sofa. Reluctantly, Kaldur gets up off the ground and moves to sit cross-legged on the couch, and is startled when the archer proceeds to grab his hand and turn it palm-down.

"I – "

" – what're the tats for?" Roy asks, running two fingers over the back of Kaldur's hand, feeling the divide between his inked and natural skin, as if testing the texture. "Jesus your hands're smooth."

"…thank you?" says Kaldur uncertainly. This is decidedly outside his comfort zone, but Roy is either very bold or very drunk (or perhaps both), and he doesn't want to make things more awkward than they already are, so he lets the archer continue. Roy's touch is warm and his fingers are rough, callused. "The tattoos help me to channel sorcerous energy when I am attempting hydrokinesis. Had I remained longer in Atlantis, they would not be necessary, but my studies were cut short, and…I am boring you."

Roy's head jerks up.

"Nah," he objects, sounding sincere. "Y'not. I said your life sounded boring. Not you. Y'ractually kind of interesting. D'they go all the way up?"

(Months later, Kaldur will realize the connotations of this question and feel blazing retrospective embarrassment. In the moment, he has no idea, and simply nods.)

"Cool," Roy grins, dropping his hand and slumping back against the couch back. "Listen, thanks f'r uh…y'know, letting me hide out here."

"It is no trouble," Kaldur nods. He hesitates before his next question. "Did you intend to spend the night?"

Roy rubs the back of his neck, scrunching his nose slightly.

"If uh. If it's not a problem."

"It is not," says Kaldur, nodding. "I have extra blankets. Would you like anything to drink before bed?"

"Think I had plenty already," says Roy with a low laugh. "S'why I'm here, i'n't it?"

"I meant water," says Kaldur, shaking his head and chuckling. "I am told it is a good way to prevent overhang."

Roy gives him a look, blue eyes glinting with amusement, though Kaldur can't tell if it's malicious or not. He hopes not. Hard to tell with Roy.

"Think you mean hangover," the archer laughs, and once again Kaldur feels embarrassment course through him. It's a frustrating thing, making mistakes like this. He isn't stupid. He hopes Roy knows that.

"My apologies," he mutters.

"Nah don't, s'funny, I like it," Roy grins. "The accent too. I dig it. And uh, yeah, cup of water'd be great, since you asked."

Grateful for the excuse to get up, Kaldur rises and crosses to the kitchen (most of his flat is one open room), leaving Roy squinting across the living room at the Atlantean titles on his bookcase. He takes a glass down from the cupboard and fills it from the tap, once again wondering why it is that despite the way the older boy puts him a little on edge, he is glad of his presence.

It is not that Roy reminds him of Garth – not in the least. It is not that he feels particularly understood by him, or comforted by his company, or that they have a lot in common, because they really don't. Perhaps, Kaldur considers, he is just very lonely and has been too consumed with hero business to realize it.

Or perhaps it's something more. He carries the glass across room and hands it over, at which the archer nods his gratitude.

"Cheers," says Roy.

Kaldur has no idea what that means but he has had enough embarrassment for one night so he walks around the sofa to reclaim his seat, drawing his legs up and saying nothing. Roy downs the water quickly and sets the glass down, wiping his mouth.

"Might crash soon," he says. "That cool?"

"Of course," Kaldur nods. "Shall I get the blankets?"

"If y'don't mind."

Kaldur does. In a few minutes Roy is situated on the couch, yawning drowsily, and Kaldur is ready for bed himself, teeth brushed and shirt abandoned (Atlanteans may be shy about eye contact, but by surface standards their attitudes about clothing are fairly lax). He steps into the living room and puts his hand on the light switch, hesitating a moment to see if Roy will object, and when he doesn't, he turns off the light and turns to enter his bedroom.

It is a strange feeling, having someone else in this space. Prior to this moment only his king and his landlady have shared it, and neither for any great stretch of time. This is different. For the moment, it is impossible to tell if it will become anything more, but as Kaldur slips into bed and lets sleep take him…he finds himself hoping it does.


	3. Soldier

**SOLDIER**

* * *

_Your Royal Highness,_

_Some weeks ago you requested a comprehensive report on the recruit known as Kaldur'ahm, the recent arrival from Shayeris. While I admit I am uncertain why the boy should be of special interest to you given his parentage, I remain your humble servant, and enclosed you will find reports from his three most immediate reporting officers._

_Ever yours in service,_

_Bal'thearn tal Mond__ï__s_

_Lieutenant General, Royal Army of Atlantis, South Sea Division_

* * *

**FILE ONE: MIL****Ǽ****NA D'TRITONIS, COMBAT TRAINING**

_Recruit Kaldur'ahm possesses strength comparable to pureblooded Atlanteans of a similar age and sex. Reflexes and fundamental senses are both above average, though the difference is not so pronounced as to merit further investigation. While he is rarely the quickest to pick up a given skill, he displays considerable perseverance and regularly puts in additional hours after training has finished in order to perfect each technique. Form, focus and constitution are all excellent. _

_That said, Kaldur'ahm is abnormally nonaggressive and holds back in spars with his fellow trainees, a poor quality in a soldier. Furthermore, he frequently loses critical advantage due to what seems to be a predisposition towards excessive deliberation. He is quick enough to follow direct orders, but when left to his own devices, he appears to favor thought over action. In time I believe he will make a fine soldier, but in my professional opinion, this predilection for unwarranted caution will render him unsuitable for a leadership position._

_If any of the above is unclear or insufficiently specific, I will gladly provide a more detailed account._

_Mil__æ__na D'Tritonis, Captain, Royal Army of Atlantis_

_Chief Overseer, SS Division Combat Unit_

* * *

**FILE THREE: ROONIS M****Ȑ****ALISS, BARRACKS OVERSIGHT**

_There is not much to say about Kaldur'ahm. He is a quiet boy who seems to prefer the company of his books to that of his peers. They are silly things, tales of the surface world and its people, but as we have no rules against such things it is not my place to confiscate them._

_It would seem worth mentioning that on several occasions, a number of the other recruits have sought to impress upon him that his impure characteristics (he has the gills of a full-blooded Shayeran) make him unsuited to serve alongside more fully humanoid Atlanteans. It is impossible to say if these encounters have had any effect on his psyche, as he has never complained to me nor to anyone else to the best of my knowledge, but I am forced to wonder if there is more going on in that head than there would seem. The boy is frustratingly reserved._

_Do rest assured that we have disciplined the others in accordance with the royal stance on Purist attitudes. _

_It is my sincere hope that this has been of help to you._

_Roonis M__ȑ__aliss, Sergeant, Royal Army of Atlantis_

_Barracks Head, SS Division, North/East Complex_

* * *

**FILE TWO: ARGUS D'LEMURIS, TACTICS**

_Having overseen the recruit's progress for some months now, I am pleased to report that he has taken immeasurable strides since his first arrival here, when I nearly thought him a halfwit for all his ponderous silences. The boy is creative, adaptable, and capable of addressing many complicated scenarios simultaneously, perhaps more so than any of his peers. When presented with a situation, he thinks through all possible outcomes before proceeding, frequently to his great advantage._

_This is not to say he is without room for improvement, of course. His faith in his own abilities is lacking, and at times he will allow others to discuss many impractical approaches to a given problem as he waits to be invited to speak, rather than stepping in with the more sensible course of action. Additionally, he is reluctant to endorse any plan that will place a member of his squad in undue danger, even if such a risk would result in a vast strategic advantage. I believe that time and experience will harden him to the necessary realities of such things. We will make a tactician of him yet._

_As an aside, I must relate something that is perhaps too forward for my position, but we have known each other a good long while and fought side by side for nearly as many years, so I pray you will forgive my boldness in penning it. I cannot know your mind in asking about the boy, but I have an inkling it has something to do with his father, and I wish to make it very clear that from what I have seen, they are not of the same cloth. Kaldur'ahm is an extraordinarily gentle boy, soft-spoken and diplomatic with his fellow recruits. There is nothing of Black Manta's violence in him. If intervention is on your mind, I pray you keep it at bay a little while longer – we can make a fine Atlantean of this young man if you give us the time._

_With warmest regards,_

_Argus D'Lemuris, General (Retired), Royal Army of Atlantis_

_Principal Instructor, SS Division Tactics_

* * *

"Orin."

He casts a glance back as his wife enters his study, nightgown shifting in the faint current. Mera's voice is soft, regretful, and he knows her touch is coming even before her hand descends on his shoulder, palm resting lightly upon the tight muscle there.

"I intend to sleep soon enough," he says, his own voice laden with suppressed emotion as he turns back to the desk. "There is no need for you to wait for me."

She is silent, leaning over him to examine the four letters laid out before him, each stamped with the old seal of the army of their kingdom, the seal from the days before the Purist Rebellion. Many things have changed since he first opened these letters some eight years ago. Many things have come to pass that even now feel more like dreams than anything else.

"It is not your fault," says Mera. Her voice is firm but gentle in his ear, and as she speaks she squeezes his shoulder very tenderly – it is still healing from the blast he weathered on Malina Island nearly a month ago.

"I am not so certain," he confesses, feeling her gaze on the side of his face. "The man I called my brother, and the one I could have called a son, both..."

He trails off, unable to finish, then remarks quietly:

"My faith in coincidences grows weak."

With a sigh, Mera steps around him to gather up the letters and bind them fresh with a length of twine from his desk.

"You command a kingdom and a powerful army," she tells him as she stows them away in a drawer, out of his sight. "But do not think that you command fate, too, my love. Orm, and Kaldur as well…no one could have foreseen how they would change. What they would become. It is not your fault."

"What of Tula, or La'gaan?" Orin asks bitterly, turning away. "Would you absolve me of their fates as well?"

"We will find La'gaan," Mera assures him. "Despair accomplishes nothing."

He closes his eyes, hesitates, then speaks anyway.

"What of Arthur?"

He feels her silence like a chilling tide, washing through the room, and regrets his words instantly. When he opens his eyes, his proud, noble wife looks stricken, helpless, lost, and he can do nothing but reach for her, draw her to his chest, hold her close as the memory of their little one slips away into the deep.

"I am sorry," he whispers as she shakes in his arms. "I am sorry, beloved. I am not myself today."

A thousand miles away, Kaldur can't help but feel the same.


	4. Bridge

**BRIDGE**

* * *

Kaldur isn't sure what he's doing out here.

It's not like this is his city. He doesn't have a city anymore, not even a country, not since the Royal Council pronounced his exile official some months ago, on the day that marked the beginning of the rest of his life. King Orin says that someday they may reconsider, but Kaldur isn't holding his breath – he knows why he isn't welcome. He does not begrudge his people their anger. And he knew what he was risking, agreeing to Nightwing's plan all those years ago.

Truth be told, though, he hardly remembers that day. Everything seems so fuzzy, blurred, as if his memories are things he watched, not lived; even the ones he makes now feel that way, slipping instantly into his mind and gathering dust as soon as they're there, like his present is just as impersonal and uncontrollable as his past. Occasionally he wonders if Roy (the Roy he knew) feels the same way. Is it in essence the same thing, to be born with stolen memories, or to have your mind rebuilt scrap by scrap?

But he doesn't blame M'gann, either. Keeping that secret from her was yet another risk that they chose to take, that _he _chose to take, and while it did present a number of problems in the middle of things, everything came out right in the end.

Well, at least, everything came out how it was supposed to.

Star City is brisk and windy as ever as he stands on its iconic bridge, hands resting lightly on the railing. The water below reflects the blue-grey of the sky, and the sign posted to his right encourages him to call a number if he feels like jumping, which he finds a little bit amusing. It would take much more than a jump off Star Bridge to bring his life to a close, not that he would ever think of such things. Atlantis is a culture of a thousand taboos, and while he may no longer be counted among its citizens, he will stand by its values until the day he dies – by time, or by someone else's hand, but never by his own.

The wind shifts, and a car honks somewhere behind him.

He supposes he's here and not somewhere else because some years ago, this city was the site of many of his happiest memories, however faded and warped they may be. If any place was ever a home to him on the surface world, it was this one, with its sea breeze and its grimy streets and Roy's wholly unexpected friendship, back when he was still new to everything and the older boy found his cluelessness both amusing and endlessly exploitable. He isn't sure how many days he spent out here, letting the archer educate him on every irresponsible activity known to surface teenagers, or how many nights, rooting out crime by his friend's side, only that those years gave him a lightness of spirit he will never (can never) again know.

Still, the smell of the salt in the air triggers something inside him, a sort of off-color nostalgia, and for a moment, he's at peace, or as close to it as he's been for a while. Behind him, the cars flow on, the sun inches across the sky, the tourists trudge dutifully across the bridge so they can say they did. He's surrounded by life, and he's never been this alone.

Reaching into his pocket, he withdraws his cell phone to check the time. It's not as though he has anywhere to be or anyone to see, but military habits die hard, and he likes to know.

_1 missed call, _it tells him. It's Dick; he knows before he even clicks further because it's always Dick, who still periodically calls to check in, to see how he's doing, to ask if he needs anything, which he never does, nothing Dick can give, anyway.

And besides, Kaldur knows that it's mostly obligation that drives the younger hero to call him on days like this. He's seen the look in his old friend's eyes on the rare occasion they meet face to face. To Dick, he is a reminder of all that's passed, of those painful years spent hurting and betraying and lying to their friends, and with a life as full as Dick's, there isn't much room for any one person, much less a loose end like Kaldur.

Because that's what he is, really. He's a loose end, a leftover, a cog in a machine that's served its purpose, and the world has moved on, continues to move on day after day. He's alive, but he's already a ghost. He's still here, but here is nowhere.

Hesitating a moment, Kaldur sets the phone down on the railing, then gives it a gentle push forward with his fingertips. It teeters only a few seconds before gravity finally wins out and it slides off the other side, spinning out into the air and falling down, down, down towards the water, the splash barely visible from the bridge where he stands watching.

Then he turns away, imagining it sinking down to the floor of the bay, its parts coming apart piece by piece, day by day, and disintegrating and riding the tide to deeper seas, to the cold currents of his homeland.

It's time to go. This isn't his city, and it never was, and there is no use in lingering.

If only he knew how to do anything but.


	5. Time

**TIME**

* * *

M'gann has gotten better at this.

It used to be that gathering information from an unwilling mind took hours, sometimes days to accomplish, back when she cared whether or not the extraction left a mark on the target. But she doesn't hold back like that anymore, not since she realized what the price of hesitation can be. Now, she can sift through years of memories in a matter of minutes, ripping whole sheaves of thought from their bindings, because only the guilty keep secrets, and the guilty do not deserve mercy, least of all _him. _

It's astonishingly easy to penetrate his initial resistance. Perhaps it's because her rage is so fresh (Gar, La'gaan, _Artemis) _that it overwhelms his psyche before he even fully registers who his opponent is, before he has a chance to throw up any mental defenses. By the time recognition clicks in his subconscious she's already inside it, and his shouts are just fuel on the flames of her fury as she forces her way in deeper and he falls to his knees.

This time is different. She's not looking _for_ anything. She's past caring why he betrayed them after all he's done. She's just looking to make him bleed in the only way she knows how, and so blindly she lashes out inside his mind, takes up fistfuls of memories and pulls as hard as she can as his body writhes on the floor of the submarine. Then it happens that she stumbles upon a memory that contains her and she slows, just enough to glimpse what it is she's obliterating.

It's the day they met, and there's a surprising amount of detail to it, little fragments of emotion attached to each fleeting image – curiosity towards her, fond embarrassment at Wally's overeager introduction, worry about Conner's reticence. M'gann's first reaction is surprise. She hadn't realized something this old would be so near the surface, nor so well-preserved, like he's revisited it lately. Then it occurs to her that he's probably been thinking of it because not a week ago, he destroyed the place where that meeting occurred, and her rage intensifies.

She tears through the next batch of memories, flickers of the team in its early days, feeling him fight her every step of the way, but his mind is no match for hers. She does not even hesitate when there is a surge of grief as she touches on his thoughts of Tula. The monster proved his heartlessness when he murdered Wally's lover, her Earth-sister, the young woman who once trusted him with her life only to lose it by his hand. With brutal efficiency M'gann unburdens Kaldur of the memory of his never-to-be love.

On she flies, through the core of his thoughts, the times of his life she knows he holds dearest by their favored position in his psyche:

Sunrises seen through the sparkling lens of the waves above his childhood home. Afternoons spent sparring with Robin, watching him grow from a rambunctious young boy to a steady-eyed leader. Midnights on the beach at Mount Justice, steeped in silence. Missions completed. Missions failed. The gruff growl of Batman's reprimands. The approval in Aquaman's eyes at a job well done. Roy's dingy, beloved apartment, smelling of blood and bleach and cheap beer. The team in action. The team in mourning. The team at Christmas.

She is not so lost in her fury that she does not find this strange. There is no bitter tinge to the recollections crumbling in her wake. There is nothing to indicate anger or hatred towards any of his old teammates, not a trace even of the time-crusted numbness she'd expect from someone who's undergone such a drastic change of heart. These are memories kept fresh by frequent revisitation, like those of a prisoner clinging to thoughts of life Before.

And then she stumbles on it: the string of memories that turns her heart to ice.

"_No."_

The word drops from her lips as she withdraws in horror from what's left of his mind. She doesn't notice her knees buckling beneath her, nor Gar's arms reaching out to steady her before she can fall; she doesn't notice anything until a hoarse voice calls out Kaldur's name, and she looks up to see the woman she thought she had been avenging there in the flesh, her mind as recognizable as her body is not.

They don't have time to talk. Halfhearted justifications drip through M'gann's mind but they sound feeble even to her, and she can feel the shock and dread rolling off Artemis in waves as she holds Kaldur upright, the one thing that stood between her and Black Manta, now as hollow as the armor that couldn't protect him.

In a flash of smoke, they're gone, leaving Artemis's question to echo through M'gann's mind:

_What have you done?_

And even M'gann doesn't know.


	6. Seeking

**SEEKING**

* * *

Kaldur lies in a bed – not his bed, just a bed – in the Watchtower, and does not sleep.

Sometimes it feels as though he hasn't really slept in years. Even before he left the team to go undercover, some nights were like this one, long and silent and empty, lying hour upon hour where he didn't really belong, whether it was the Academy or the Cave or even his own flat, back when he had a face and a name on the surface. Back then, he used to use those bleak hours to rehash the day's failures, recounting in detail each way he could have performed more admirably and resolving to do better come daybreak. But tonight Kaldur does not think of the future, because truthfully: what future does he have?

Instead, he lets his mind drift back to better times.

The ripple of his mother's golden hair beneath the waves.

_She will not have him home again, not after the shame and heartbreak he has wrought upon her house and name._

The trust implied in the surety of his teammates' movements as they carry out his orders.

_Despite what Nightwing thinks, he cannot lead them again. He has played them all too far, stretched their faith too thin. He will never truly rejoin them._

Roy's easy smile, the one only Kaldur can get him to make.

_He has another calling now. A daughter. A family. A better life._

Tula's silvery laugh, light and bright and unselfconscious.

_..._

Alone in the darkness, Kaldur stares at the ceiling, motionless and calm. He thinks of his father's firm hand on his shoulder, the pride in his eyes, the warmth in his voice, the stillness of his body as he laid there in the shallows. Even when he had learned of Kaldur's deceit, he had defended him from Black Beetle, thrown his own body between them, been ready to die for his bastard traitor son. And in return, Kaldur had felled him with his own two hands. _I hope I have made you proud._

Kaldur closes his eyes. Would his King have died for him?

He thinks of the sting of M'gann's false shot, the way he'd let himself fall to the ground, the way for a moment, his work had been over. He thinks of the time he spent wondering if there was a way to manipulate the mission so that it had required his actual death, not merely the appearance of it. But no, he could not have abandoned Artemis, who while a champion fighter and a prize liar will never be a leader the way he has out of necessary learned to be. So it has always been. Not for his own sake but for Robin's. Not for his own sake but for Tula's. Not for his sake but for M'gann's.

_You triumphed. _

Perhaps, yes. But for whom?

The Earth is safe, for now, but he has no place on it. For as long as he has lived he has been searching a greater calling, and now that he has found and answered it, Kaldur is spent. He has betrayed every person who has ever loved him. He has hurt every friend he has ever made. He is Earth's most celebrated hero and its dirtiest soul, and there is nothing left on this planet to slake the deep, aching loneliness from which he has been fleeing so long.

Here in the Watchtower it has found him at last, and he can do nothing but let it take him.


End file.
